Music
Brian Ahnmark
Music has essentially reverted.
Consider this my loving epitaph for an art form currently exhaling its final breath: The Album.
Whoever could have possibly imagined that the collection of songs as an expression of a musician’s artistic vision would sputter so, whimpering beneath the weight of digital demand? How could The Album fail to heed the sage wisdom of Neil Young’s proclamation, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away”?
I discovered music just as cassettes were giving way to compact discs. I remember buying my first CD player – a Sharp combo CD/cassette/radio boombox – for $137 when I was in sixth grade. My first CD was Michael Jackson’s Dangerous.
Yes, I’m a little ashamed. That last line just kind of slipped out. But what the hell, I’m getting all sentimental here…
I love buying an album. I love catching my fingernail just right under that plastic shrink wrap, discarding it in the trash bin before I even get from the store to the parking lot. I love the satisfaction of true achievement that floods my body as I finally pry that damn sticker off the top of the case (Confession: I love even more the cardboard cases that don’t have said sticker). Then I crack open the shell and let out that new album smell… which I assume is a relatively toxic mix of lyric ink and liner note lacquer. Yes, The Album Scent is my permanent marker, my rubber cement, my new car smell.
Obviously, all of that is superfluous. What is essential is the music that is contained within. And that is why I worry. I worry about a music listening society that buys songs for a dollar on a computer, then buries them with thousands of other songs on another, smaller computer. Somewhere along the line, a song – a three-minute work of divine craft and inspiration – turned into a pinch-hitter’s baseball card, a non-Slammer POG, something to store in the dusty corner of a closet (or iPod).
Remember that great scene in Almost Famous, when Penny Lane discusses isolation with William?
“And if you ever get lonely,” she says, “just go to the record store and visit your friends.” In modern terms, that line would translate, “just hop online and download some more tracks, then put on your headphones and ignore everyone.” The sense of camaraderie connected with visiting a record store, leafing through albums, talking music with the clerks – that’s gone. Midnight record sales, when you could sneak out and buy an album Monday night instead of waiting until the proper Tuesday release day – that’s gone.
To me, one of the great joys of music is sharing it with others. I could do that regularly with my friends at sleepovers, Sharp boombox in tow. Or in college, with my Aiwa and a six-pack. Now? People “share” music by passing their headphones to someone else, no communication possible. They play compressed mp3 files through junk tin can speakers on a laptop, as their albums collect dust in the basement.
Whoever could have possibly imagined that the compact disc itself would one day become as obsolete as those cardboard longboxes once utilized to deter CD thieves?
The 1960s and 1970s must have been a magical time, as musicians and listeners alike advanced beyond radio singles and craved more. The Beatles, one of the greatest single bands ever, pushed the envelope with Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The Who gave it another shove with Tommy. These bands were insatiable, exponentially expanding their creative vision beyond the confines of radio. Instead of two great minutes of music, how about 45? And listeners followed.
Think about what has happened in recent years: Music has essentially reverted. Album sales tank a little more each year, as listeners turn to and purchase individual songs from artists. The sound quality of these songs continues to diminish, making music the only industry I can think of that consciously pollutes and deteriorates its product and calls it progress. Part of the onus falls upon bands, as well; when was the last time an artist did something truly revolutionary?
I don’t blame the industry; it’s not as though music itself is becoming less popular and thus turning album sales downward. It’s the fickle, lazy, scatterbrained, ADD-addled modern music fan. The people who refer to a song as “Track 8” instead of its title, mostly because they don’t know the title or the name of the band who wrote the song. Listening to music – really listening, sitting in front of speakers and studying the lyrics and the liner notes and wondering if you could play a drum part like that and looking up at your friends with jaw slackened as the guitar solo hits its climactic note – that’s an extinct hobby.
The purpose of music today is white noise. Something to drown out the coffee shop din while you’re doing homework. Something to help you ignore mom and pop on a long road trip. Something to grind to during your local Saturday night extreme bowling.
Last week, a buddy called to tell me that his laptop had fried its hard drive, taking with it a decade of digital music collection. No backups. Nary a compact disc to salvage the lost songs. The simple truth is that music is more disposable now than it ever has been.
But alas, there remain signs of life. Although CDs may soon be headed the way of laser discs, vinyl record sales have enjoyed a resurgence in recent years. That’s vinyl, folks, not something that can be loaded onto a computer or even spun in an automobile.
Imagine that: Buying music for the sole purpose of listening to it.
Whoever could have possibly imagined that the collection of songs as an expression of a musician’s artistic vision would sputter so, whimpering beneath the weight of digital demand? How could The Album fail to heed the sage wisdom of Neil Young’s proclamation, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away”?
I discovered music just as cassettes were giving way to compact discs. I remember buying my first CD player – a Sharp combo CD/cassette/radio boombox – for $137 when I was in sixth grade. My first CD was Michael Jackson’s Dangerous.
Yes, I’m a little ashamed. That last line just kind of slipped out. But what the hell, I’m getting all sentimental here…
I love buying an album. I love catching my fingernail just right under that plastic shrink wrap, discarding it in the trash bin before I even get from the store to the parking lot. I love the satisfaction of true achievement that floods my body as I finally pry that damn sticker off the top of the case (Confession: I love even more the cardboard cases that don’t have said sticker). Then I crack open the shell and let out that new album smell… which I assume is a relatively toxic mix of lyric ink and liner note lacquer. Yes, The Album Scent is my permanent marker, my rubber cement, my new car smell.
Obviously, all of that is superfluous. What is essential is the music that is contained within. And that is why I worry. I worry about a music listening society that buys songs for a dollar on a computer, then buries them with thousands of other songs on another, smaller computer. Somewhere along the line, a song – a three-minute work of divine craft and inspiration – turned into a pinch-hitter’s baseball card, a non-Slammer POG, something to store in the dusty corner of a closet (or iPod).
Remember that great scene in Almost Famous, when Penny Lane discusses isolation with William?
“And if you ever get lonely,” she says, “just go to the record store and visit your friends.” In modern terms, that line would translate, “just hop online and download some more tracks, then put on your headphones and ignore everyone.” The sense of camaraderie connected with visiting a record store, leafing through albums, talking music with the clerks – that’s gone. Midnight record sales, when you could sneak out and buy an album Monday night instead of waiting until the proper Tuesday release day – that’s gone.
To me, one of the great joys of music is sharing it with others. I could do that regularly with my friends at sleepovers, Sharp boombox in tow. Or in college, with my Aiwa and a six-pack. Now? People “share” music by passing their headphones to someone else, no communication possible. They play compressed mp3 files through junk tin can speakers on a laptop, as their albums collect dust in the basement.
Whoever could have possibly imagined that the compact disc itself would one day become as obsolete as those cardboard longboxes once utilized to deter CD thieves?
The 1960s and 1970s must have been a magical time, as musicians and listeners alike advanced beyond radio singles and craved more. The Beatles, one of the greatest single bands ever, pushed the envelope with Revolver and Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The Who gave it another shove with Tommy. These bands were insatiable, exponentially expanding their creative vision beyond the confines of radio. Instead of two great minutes of music, how about 45? And listeners followed.
Think about what has happened in recent years: Music has essentially reverted. Album sales tank a little more each year, as listeners turn to and purchase individual songs from artists. The sound quality of these songs continues to diminish, making music the only industry I can think of that consciously pollutes and deteriorates its product and calls it progress. Part of the onus falls upon bands, as well; when was the last time an artist did something truly revolutionary?
I don’t blame the industry; it’s not as though music itself is becoming less popular and thus turning album sales downward. It’s the fickle, lazy, scatterbrained, ADD-addled modern music fan. The people who refer to a song as “Track 8” instead of its title, mostly because they don’t know the title or the name of the band who wrote the song. Listening to music – really listening, sitting in front of speakers and studying the lyrics and the liner notes and wondering if you could play a drum part like that and looking up at your friends with jaw slackened as the guitar solo hits its climactic note – that’s an extinct hobby.
The purpose of music today is white noise. Something to drown out the coffee shop din while you’re doing homework. Something to help you ignore mom and pop on a long road trip. Something to grind to during your local Saturday night extreme bowling.
Last week, a buddy called to tell me that his laptop had fried its hard drive, taking with it a decade of digital music collection. No backups. Nary a compact disc to salvage the lost songs. The simple truth is that music is more disposable now than it ever has been.
But alas, there remain signs of life. Although CDs may soon be headed the way of laser discs, vinyl record sales have enjoyed a resurgence in recent years. That’s vinyl, folks, not something that can be loaded onto a computer or even spun in an automobile.
Imagine that: Buying music for the sole purpose of listening to it.
